Last summer, Tim and I bought a Saint Francis statuette to
grace our home. Our Saint Francis was about a foot tall and wore a dark beard
and subdued red and green garments, with a cardinal perched on one arm and a
large brown basket in his hands. The platform he stood on confidently
proclaimed, “His eye is on the sparrow, and I know he watches me.” Saint
Francis spent much of his young life in the DeLuca household indoors, holding
scrumptious Jelly Bellies or licorice in his basket. When Tim and I moved to
Rowley, however, we decided to let him have a go of feeding the real live birds
out on our porch. After all, the out of doors seems like a good place for a
Saint Francis to be. Francis’ first round of birdseed was quickly devoured but,
after realizing that we didn’t have any more traditional bird food, Tim and I
stocked his basket with dry lentils, which were significantly less popular.
Soon the birds forgot about Saint Francis and I mostly did too.
That is, until a few weeks ago. It had gotten progressively
colder over the last few months, as winters generally do in New England, but I
figured Saint Francis could handle it. I mean, he’s an ascetic, right? Well, I
was wrong. Saint Francis had had quite enough and had cracked completely in two
at the waist. His top half had fallen off and rolled a few inches away from his
bottom half, spilling lentils on the way. It was a sad scene to see such a
lively and joyful saint come to such a sudden and frightful end. I originally
thought we could piece him back together, Humpty Dumpty style, and respectfully
laid his torso in front of his feet until we could conjure up some superglue.
But Tim rightfully judged that his reassembly was a lost cause, primarily
because we had discovered that Saint Francis was completely hollow, a
disappointment in itself! So off he went unceremoniously to the dumpster.
I was sad to see him go for a number of reasons. Saint
Francis has long been my favorite saint for his love of nature, his desire to
see every aspect of creation shouting out in praise to its Creator, his wild abandon,
his joy, and his freedom. I often find myself fighting against a part of me
that wants safety and protection, that wants to close up, to clench my fists
tight around anything and everything I have to hold on to. The grip winds up
suffocating, the shelter becomes cold and dark, and my heart feels as dead and
hard as the bare winter ground. My inner Saint Francis has cracked in half.
For Saint Francis reminds me not only that life and freedom
are possible, but how and why and for what purpose. First, the how. Saint
Francis demonstrates that freedom comes from letting go. Francis held very
loosely to everything that belonged to this world and consequently,
relinquished the control that material possessions could have had on him. As a
child I watched the movie Brother Sun, Sister Moon at my grandmother’s house. I
vividly remember Francis, stripped down to his bare bum, gleefully throwing
fine linens and money out of his father’s castle window as if to say, “These
things mean absolutely nothing to me.” I had the feeling that this guy was
completely crazy and at the same time, really onto something.
In this Lenten season, I’ve been reminded that the purpose
of fasting is to fast from control of my life. To practice that kind of fast
takes intentional and continual unclenching of the fists that grip every false
security blanket. Francis was able to do that by naming things for what they truly
are. Money, clothes, notoriety, and health, while good in certain contexts, are
all fleeting and fading. Francis’ joy overflowed from that truth; he saw
himself as an object of God’s unfading love rather than a being defined by the
anxiety of trying to pin down things that never last. His complete trust in God
enabled him to act passionately and purposefully at a moment’s notice, even
after intense periods of questioning his own vocation.
Secondly, why is this kind of freedom and life possible? I
suppose I could also phrase this question as a how, rather than a why, but on a
larger scale than what I’ve already discussed. The answer lies in Jesus’
resurrection and the imminent redemption of all creation. A full articulation
of this concept is not possible in this space but N.T. Wright’s Surprised by
Hope is a clear and brilliant introduction. In short, Jesus’ resurrection was a
poking through of the eternal into the everyday. It has allowed us to
experience and live in the realities of everlasting life during our temporal,
finite existence. As Paul says in Ephesians 2, “because of his great love for
us, God, who is rich in mercy, made us alive with Christ even when we were dead
in transgressions.” It’s paradoxical and surprising but it’s confirmed in my
experience and countless others, including Saint Francis.
Thirdly, for what purpose do we have access to this freedom?
I suppose you could say that human beings were always meant to be so free from
inhibition and worry. In that sense it’s a return to our intended state, a
place where I as a human being sense that I am more fully myself than ever
before. That transformation is valuable in itself. In another sense, we
experience this freedom as an opportunity to bring life to other people and
things, mimicking and participating in the way that Jesus imparted life and
freedom to others.
The Little Flowers are full of stories of Saint Francis as a
vehicle of restoration and renewal, both to people and animals. While Francis
had once thought of lepers as the most detestable people in the world, he meets
one on the road and is urged to embrace and kiss him. Later on he lives with a
colony of lepers, caring for them and washing their sores. In another instance,
Francis mediates between a wolf and the village people that said wolf was
terrorizing. Once Francis is done with the situation, the wolf becomes almost a
mascot and protector of the town. There’s also the famous story of Saint Francis
extolling a group of intently listening birds to thank God and to be fully who
God made them to be. Take these stories less as historical accounts and more as
folklore or rhetorical representation of what Francis’ life was about. In his
own words, Francis sought to “preach the gospel and if necessary, use words.”
Denison Witmer describes this purpose beautifully in his
song Little Flowers. It’s obviously a song about Saint Francis and the themes
of his life. Specifically, the song addresses looking for and finding God’s
love in the things he has created (“you were waving flags that bare the colors
of your love I didn’t know”) as well as demonstrating God’s love in a simple
and compelling way to other people (“little flowers that you have sown show
people you have known that I am love”).
A person who is living in the fullness of what it means to
be human, not exempt from suffering but conscious of God’s love in all
situations and free from the tyranny and exhaustion of fleeting pursuits, is
inherently attractive to others. Confusing sometimes, but attractive. That’s
what defines Saint Francis and what I’d also like to emulate.
There’s another song that I think Saint Francis should have
written, which in reality was written by Isaac Watts several centuries later. While
I myself have yet to pen any eloquent song lyrics, I often rely on them to sum
up in a few stanzas what it’s taken me many paragraphs to communicate. Watts’ I’ll
Praise My Maker does just that.
Why should I make a man my trust?
Princes must die and turn to dust;
vain is the help of flesh and blood:
their breath departs, their pomp, and power,
and thoughts, all vanish in an hour,
nor can they make their promise good.
Happy the man whose hopes rely
on Israel's God: he made the sky,
and earth, and seas, all they contain:
his truth forever stands secure,
he saves th'oppressed, he feeds the poor,
and none shall find his promise vain.
I'll praise him while he lends me breath,
and when my voice is lost in death,
praise shall employ my nobler powers;
my days of praise shall ne'er be past,
while life, and thought, and being last,
or immortality endures.
- Ruth
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